The Boy With The Scars
by PossessivePenguin
Summary: Kurt Hummel hasn't always been Death, but he has been Death long enough to understand the basic concepts. One being that he can't fall in love. Not only is it against all rules of nature, but it is impossible. Death cannot love. Kurt accepts all of this...until he is sent to collect the life of one Mr. Blaine Anderson.
1. Prologue

Kurt Hummel knew how Death worked. Death crept up from behind and stole the mere memory of your very being in one chilling instant. And so did Kurt. Because Kurt was Death.

Kurt had not always been Death. No, once upon a time he had been one of the happiest teenagers in all of Lima, Ohio. He had been a talented high school junior when tragedy struck, and the cruel hands of Death stole him away. But, instead of passing on to Other World like all deceased do, Death snatched him up once more and proposed a job offer. Death's interest in taking lives had passed and he longed to 'retire', if you will. And so, with a snap of the fingers and a whisper in the dark, Kurt was Death.

At first, Kurt had been amazed at the power he possessed. He could disfigure hearts, stop lives, cause pain, and much more. But, constant suffering could get even Death down. He tried to take his own 'life' on more than one occasion, failing to feel even the slightest bit of pain except for the loneliness of his heart. And so he continued on taking lives. In fact, that is where we find him tonight, on a deserted street in Westerville, Ohio, headed for the home of one Mr. Blaine Anderson.


	2. Chapter 1

Kurt Hummel wrapped his fashionable Marc Jacobs jacket tighter around his toned stomach and quickened his pace. He didn't need the extra warmth. He was immune to the discomfort of things like weather, but he used any and all excuses to stay in style…even though no one would ever _see_ his runway brilliance. Well, not unless he was watching the light fade out of their eyes. There were downsides to being Death, such as never being able to interact with a living soul without them being afraid of you. He looked down at the short list of names he held in his right hand. He only had three cases tonight, odd. The neighborhood was nicer than he was used to on nights like these. Pitch black was ideal for drug deals and murders, yet the houses were larger than hotels. Dogs barked in the distance as he quickened his pace.

As he neared the largest house, the name at the top of the list began to glow as red as embers. _Blaine Anderson. _Kurt waited for the familiar and painful burning sensation in the middle of his chest that accompanied the glow, but it never came. There was only a slight tingling sensation, as though nature was giving him a break. Kurt scoffed. _Give Death a break? Unlikely. Maybe I just don't feel it anymore._ He learned long ago not to reason with himself, for he tended to over think things, so he pushed the thoughts away and started up the gravel driveway of his client's home.

_My client…_

He had never gotten used to the term. He wasn't really _taking _lives (even though he had the power to do just that), he was simply assisting human beings in the transformation from living to dead. And so he nicknamed these people his clients. Kurt knew it was a bit insensitive. I mean, it wasn't as though these people had a choice most of the time, but it was better than calling them victims. Much better. Gravel crunched under his large feet as he neared the front door.

The house was, as mentioned, the largest on the street. The hedges were cut in perfect rectangular strips and the grass was of the perfect length. _These people must have a landscaper…or six._ The house itself appeared to be made of large slabs of stone. The windows were outlined with black cedar.There was a long gravel driveway that led up to the house. Kurt could only imagine the vast number of cars that must have been kept in the locked garage…not that locks could keep him out, nothing could, but he had business to do, after all. There were no limits to Kurt's power, really. He could end lives, speed up the process of death, make the process painfully slow, become anyone, become anything…the only thing he could not do was love. And, considering how dark his past was when it came to the matter of love, Kurt was perfectly fine with that.

_I wonder what Mr. Blaine did to get himself killed in this joint. Perhaps drowned in his own expensive bathwater? _He chuckled at the thought. _How stereotypical. Death has a morbid sense of humor._

He quietly stepped onto the front porch. There was no reason to stay quiet, it wasn't as though anyone in the house (besides Blaine Anderson, eventually) would be able to see or hear him, but his time as a human hadn't completely worn off. Kurt focused his attention on the dark mahogany door, carefully stepping directly through the frame as if the door was not there at all. The inside of the home was, if at all possible, more extravagant than the outside. It seemed to be themed around the mahogany door. Almost everything was colored chocolate brown or tan. _Tasteful family, _thought Kurt. There was a dining room, living room, and kitchen branching off from the small hallway where he now stood. The living room held a brown leather couch, several matching chairs, a bit of necessary décor, and a large flat screen. A middle aged woman with long black hair sat on the couch, looking positively grim. _By the looks of her clothes, she decorated the place. _A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye.

Kurt approached the woman. She appeared to be Italian.

_She's obviously not Blaine. Guess I better go look for –_

His thoughts were interrupted by the ear splitting sound of a slamming door and stomping feet from the direction of the staircase.

"I didn't raise a _fag_, Blaine! You are going to snap out of this whether you like it or not!"

A large man in a suit (from Tom Ford's collection) came barreling down the stairs, briefcase in hand. The Italian woman looked genuinely terrified. She sank down into the couch, obviously hoping the man wouldn't notice her.

_Too late._

"We have to do something about him, Ellen." Spoke the man. The woman didn't look as though she'd heard him.

"I _said_, we have to do something about him. Look at me when I talk to you, damn it!"

The woman slowly twisted her small body so that she was looking directly at the man. "W-what do you mean, James? As you said, it's just a s-stupid phase. You raised him r-right. He's just being a teenager and…rebelling."

_I can only imagine that Blaine is the son in this situation._

The man stood perfectly still for what seemed like forever. He didn't blink. He barely even breathed. Then, before Ellen could do as much as whimper, he brought his hand back and swung at her face. The collision made a loud cracking noise. She toppled backwards off the couch, her head banging against the small glass coffee table that stood close by. Kurt glanced at his list. _Still just Blaine_.

The man growled, muttering obscenities, and backed away. He snatched up what could only be car keys and retreated to the front door. Ellen didn't stir. Kurt heaved a great sigh and made his way to the steep staircase that the man, James, as Ellen had called him, had stormed down just minutes before. One step at a time, Kurt climbed.

The second story of the house was larger than the first. Kurt explored each decorative room (two bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, a dining area, and an office), finding no one.

_He's on the top story, then._

One step.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Nine.

Eleven.

Fourteen.

Sixteen.

The third story of the Anderson household was a grim looking place compared to the rest of the house. It appeared to be one massive room containing a bed, a couch, a small television, and a dresser. Articles of clothing (including an obtuse number of bow ties) were strewn in every place imaginable. The floor wasn't visible.

_I think I found him._

Blaine Anderson lay in a heap in the corner. His hair was matted. His clothes were torn. His chest heaved up and down. His body shook. His mouth emitted loud, choking sobs. He looked all around miserable. Next to his head lay a noose of twisted rope. His intentions with it were obvious.

_Oh, damn. I hate watching suicide cases._

Kurt muttered several swear words.

Now, under no circumstances should a man who has not yet breathed his last hear anything uttered from the mouth of Death unless Death wills it to be. And Kurt had not willed it to be. But, somehow, Blaine had heard him.


End file.
